Trifles :: :: University of Virginia Library

Great bard! in whom united we admire,
The sage's wisdom, and the poet's fire:
In whom at once, the great and good commend
The fine companion, and the useful friend:—
'Twas thus the muse her eager flight began,
Ardent to sing the poet and the man:
But truth in verse is clad too like a lie,
And you, at least, would think it flattery;

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Hating the thought, I check my forward strain,
I change my stile, and thus begin again.

As when some student first with curious eye,
Thro' nature's wond'rous frame attempts to pry;
His doubtful reason seeming faults surprise,
He asks if this be just? if that be wise?
Storms, tempests, earthquakes, virtue in distress,
And vice unpunish'd, with strange thoughts oppress:
Till thinking on, unclouded by degrees,
His mind is open'd, fair is all he sees;
Storms, tempests, earthquakes, virtue's ragged plight,
And vice's triumph, all are just and right:
Beauty is found, and order, and design,
And the whole scheme acknowledg'd all divine.

So when at first I view'd thy wond'rous plan,
Leading thro' all the winding maze of man;
Bewilder'd, weak, unable to pursue,
My pride would fain have laid the fault on You.
This false, that ill-exprest, this thought not good,
And all was wrong which I misunderstood.
But reading more attentive, soon I found,
The diction nervous, and the doctrine sound.
Saw man, a part of that stupendous whole,
“Whose body nature is, and God the soul.”
Saw in the scale of things his midle state,
And all his powers adapted just to that.
Saw reason, passion, weakness, how of use,
How all to good, to happiness conduce.

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Saw my own weakness, thy superior power,
And still the more I read, admire the more.

This smile drawn out, I now began
To think of forming some design or plan,
To aid my muse, and guide her wand'ring lay,
When sudden to my mind came honest Gay,
For form or method I no more contend,
But strive to copy that ingenious friend:
Like him to catch my thoughts just as they rose—
And thus I caught them, laughing at thy foes.

Where are ye now—ye criticks, shall I say?
Or owls, who sicken at this God of day?
What! mighty scriblers, will you let him go
Uncensur'd, unabus'd, unhonour'd so?
Step forth, some great distinguish'd daring dunce,
Write but one page, you silence him at once:
Write without fear; you will, you must succeed;
He cannot answer—for he will not read.

Here paus'd the muse—alas! the jade is bit,
She fain would copy Gay, but wants his wit.
She paus'd, indeed—broke off as he had done,
Wrote four unmeaning lines, and then went on.

Ye wits and fools; ye libertines and saints,
Come pour upon the foe your joint complaints.
First, you who oft, with wisdom too refin'd,
Can censure and direct th' Eternal Mind,

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Ingenious wits, who modestly pretend
This bungling frame, the universe, to mend;
How can you bear; in your great reason's spight,
To hear him prove, “Whatever is, is right?
Alas! how easy to confute the song!
If all is right, how came your heads so wrong?

And come, ye solemn fools, a numerous band,
Who read, and read, but never understand,
Pronounce it nonsense—Can't you prove it too?
Good faith, my friends, it may be so—to You.

Come too, ye libertines, who lust for power,
Or wealth, or fame, or greatness, or a whore;
All who true sensual happiness adhere to,
And laugh him out of this old-fashion'd virtue:
Virtue, where he has whimsically plac'd
Your only bliss—How odd is some men's taste!

And come, ye rigid saints, with looks demure,
Who boast yourselves right holy, just, and pure;
Come, and with pious zeal the lines decry,
Which give your proud hypocrisy the lie:
Which own the best have failings, not a few;
And prove the worst, sometimes, as good as You.

What! shall he taint such perfect souls with ill?
Shall sots not place their bliss in what they will?
Nor fools be fools? Nor wits sublime descend
In charity to heaven its works to mend?
Laughs he at these?—'Tis monstrous. To be plain,
I'd have ye write—He can but laugh again.

181

Here lifting up my head, surpriz'd, I see
Close at my elbow, flattering Vanity.
From her soft whispers soon I found it came,
That I suppos'd myself not one of them.
Alas! how easily ourselves we sooth!
I fear, in justice, he must laugh at both.

For Vanity abash'd, up to my ear
Steps honest Truth, and these sharp words I hear;
“Forbear, vain bard, like them forbear thy lays;
“Alike to POPE such censure and such praise.
“Nor that can sink, nor this exalt his name,
“Who owes to virtue, and himself, his fame.

In his first Epistle.